Two games. Two home matches. Zero wins. Liverpool fans have begun consulting marine biologists to understand what it feels like when the Titanic’s band kept playing.
The octopus of doom—that mystical cephalopod whose predictive powers rival those of actual football analysts—has spoken. And the message is grim: chaos, existential dread, and the distinct possibility that Anfield will be converted into a museum dedicated to “what could have been” by November.
Now, the sensible take is that it is September. The season stretches ahead like an unopened bottle of wine. Two dropped points at home hardly constitute a death knell. But sensible takes do not sell newspapers, and they certainly do not explain why grown men are already refreshing their CVs to apply for jobs that require less emotional investment than supporting Liverpool.
The octopus sees differently. It sees a team that cannot finish at home. It sees the weight of expectation settling onto Anfield like a low-pressure system. It sees fans doing the maths in their heads—if this continues, if the margins stay this thin, if luck does not break their way—and realizing that “next year” might be the most dangerous phrase in football.
Is it too early to worry? Technically, yes. Practically, the octopus suggests you started worrying three weeks ago. The oracle has spoken, and unlike actual football managers, it has never been wrong in a way that matters.